


Election Night 2015

by darkandstormyslash



Series: Still in the thick of it [3]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:16:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandstormyslash/pseuds/darkandstormyslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm is out of prison, and Julius thinks it would be a wonderful idea for them to watch the 2015 election together. While they relax and reminisce on a sofa both Ollie and Jamie are still in the thick of politics, faced with unpredictable election results, continuous demands from journalists and a very pissed off Dan Miller.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Julius

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand alone story but it does follow on from my previous TTOI works: The Prison Files and Pre-Election Special.
> 
> Somewhat obviously inspired by both "Life and soul of the Party" by WeeSweetieMice and "Of crayfish and coalitions" by morred

In all his years in business and politics, it’s not a dilemma that Julius Nicholson has ever come across before. How long is it acceptable to wait before contacting a colleague after their stint in prison? When Julius was young it would have shocked him to think of the Great and the Good of politics ending up in prison. In today’s brave new world he’s almost seeing a gap in the market for some sort of protocol book on the subject. How should one properly act and behave when one’s work acquaintances have just been let out of prison?

In the end he gives it four carefully counted months. Long enough for Malcolm to hopefully re-establish and recover. _How_ to get in touch raises a whole new slew of protocol considerations. He has no idea if Malcolm has the same phone number. Email seems both too personal and too impersonal. Trying to track Malcolm down and bump into him in person is out of the question.

He decides eventually on a postcard and spends a slow frustrating week trying to work out what to write on it. Would it be frightfully infra dig to refer at all to Malcolm’s stint detained at her Majesty’s pleasure? He’s curious about it, with a salacious eagerness that both shocks and excites him. He can’t bring himself to do it though, not on a postcard with the Tower of London on the front. In the end he settles for brief and formal.

_Dear Malcolm. Hope Fleet Street is treating you well. Do send me a buzz if you fancy catching up. Yours etc., Julius.  
_

He sticks a little personally-printed sticker underneath that contains his telephone number, email and fax. He no longer owns the fax machine, but he still has several hundred of the little stickers left over and it seems wasteful to throw them away.

Then he waits.

Five days later his phone buzzes in the middle of a particularly boring session in the Lords Chamber discussing some sort of council planning law that he knows will never get through. Julius sneaks his phone out from under his jacket and glances at it.

<Too busy. M.>

And then five minutes later.

<Not a personal number. Don’t save.>

Lesser men might see this as a snub but Julius Nicholson is quietly exultant. Malcolm’s reply, however brief and unfriendly, confirms that he has the correct address. A conduit of communication has been established.

Over the next two months he sends three more postcards. All are ignored yet somehow just the act of sending them makes him a little excited. He knows Malcolm reads them, the man is too nosy not to, but what does he do then? Are they filed away somewhere? Pinned on a wall? Thrown into the bin? Does Malcolm swear and fling them over his shoulder? Does he rip them or crumple them? Do they hit the bin in one piece?

Julius sticks to sending news. He doesn’t suggest meeting up again and he doesn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t want to set an ultimatum that might pressure Malcolm into shutting down any further communication. He’s established a link, and for the moment he’s happy to strengthen it.

And he’s rewarded, finally, by a text that comes at midnight.

<Who the fuck sends fucking postcards?>

There’s no initial or name, but he knows who it is. There's only one person he sends postcards to. And a few minutes later:

<Use this number>

Three words, but coming from Malcolm they might as well be a marriage proposal. Julius Nicholson clutches his phone tight to his chest in bed and smiles. It’s a few days before he dares to try it, writing and deleting texts like a nervous schoolgirl. He eventually has to write the message out first onto lined paper and then carefully transfer it to his phone, giving thanks to the Patron Saint of Tory Bastards for giving him this gift-wrapped excuse to meet.

<Saw the election day was announced. Fancy dropping by? Flat screen TV and veggie curry.>

A day later he gets the response.

<Busy. M.>

He’s determined not to miss the chance that election night provides. Malcolm will refuse to meet him without an iron-clad reason for doing so, and short of a war breaking out Julius can’t think of another one. He jumped too quickly, he decided, lured in by the gift of Malcolm’s phone number. As a first text it lacked subtlety and possibly seemed a tad desperate.

Moving onward, Julius plans a whole series of texts that will be sent at random intervals never more than three days apart. They’ll start innocuously, with interesting political tit-bits Malcolm might be intrigued by, changing slowly and carefully to dropping hints regarding the election night and then a final off-hand sounding suggestion to meet up first the week and then the night before.

He sends the first two days later:

<Slow day. Lord M S-B enraged by new welfare standards – very intriguing given his past! JN>

He’s slightly put out when he gets a reply five minutes later:

<Ah why the fuck not. Election night it is. I'll bring the biscuits>

When he gets to heaven, Julius Nicholson decides, he’s going to request back all the hours of his life he’s lost making plans that Malcolm Tucker has destroyed. He waits a disapproving half hour before sending back the details of his address. And then it’s time to scour all the nearby Indian restaurants, conscientiously taste-testing the takeaways of each one. He loads up on soft drinks, and tries to tell himself all this is merely the pleasure of meeting an old friend from the past. He doesn’t have many friends from the old days left. He sends Christmas cards each year to Nicola, Jamie, Tom and Dan Miller, and Nicola and Dan both send him back standard party-approved cards with their signatures stamped at the bottom. He doesn’t really expect to hear any more.

So that, he tells himself, is why he awaits the event with such anticipation. But it seems to be more than just friendly curiosity that has him standing by the door on election night, peering down the street through the anonymity of the frosted glass.


	2. Malcolm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and Julius watch the exit poll

Malcolm knows it’s the correct house. He knows because he’s googled it twice and driven past it the day before. It also helps that he can see Nicholson inside it, big bald and awkward outlined against the frosted glass of the front door. For some reason that cheers him up. If Nicholson is going to be an idiot about this than it makes his own daft behaviour seem more normal by comparison. Daft behaviour which, in Malcolm’s mind, includes turning up at the damn house in the first place. He doesn’t particularly _like_ Julius, or even trust him, but of all the people he’s neither liked nor trusted over the years Julius is the only one who still appears to want to talk to him.

There are plenty of people he’d rather watch this election with. He feels a faint pang for Nicola Murray, that bridge burnt and destroyed. And next to it the wreckage of Jamie MacDonald, Glenn Cullen, Hugh Abbot and even Ben Swain, who might be a laugh. Instead he’s here with Julius. He almost turns the car around at the thought, but then Julius raises a hand up to shade the glass and look the other way down the street.

Malcolm’s lip twitches. He tugs a Londis bag out from under the seat and gets out of the car. Julius jumps and quickly retreats as Malcolm heads towards the front door, pausing for a few seconds after the knock before opening it.

“Malcolm! Glad you could make it. You – you look well.”

“I look old.” Malcolm steps in and waves the Londis bag at him. “So do you.”

“Oh you didn’t have to – “ Julius protests weakly as he pulls a packet of chocolate digestives out of the bag. Malcolm grins and walks past him into the lounge, picking up a can of coke zero and snapping it open. He hears Julius mutter a “Right ... well...” and then the man retreats into the kitchen, leaving Malcolm to take a good nosy look at the lounge. It’s a nice place, with brand spanking new technology interspersed conscientiously with antiques and nick-knacks either inherited or gifted. Julius is new old money; money not old enough to have lost the grubby fingerprints of being handled yet not quite new enough for Julius to escape the jealousy of those unfortunate not to have been born so lucky.

The TV is as large and flat as promised.

Julius comes out with a Vegetarian Feast For Two artfully arranged on antique china plates. Malcolm takes charge of the four remote controls, peering at the sleek black boxes living under the screen and pressing buttons until he finally reaches the BBC. It’s half an hour to the exit poll and speculation is running wild.

“It’ll be close.” Julius shakes his head, “Fancy a flutter on the outcome?”

“No.” Malcolm crushes half a popadom and drops it down into his mouth. Julius is as nervous and jumpy as a teenager on a first date and Malcolm is taking a rather perverse pleasure in knocking him back. Not that anything he’s saying is making Julius react with anything other than barely-concealed excitement.

“There’s still a chance Malcolm! I know Reeder hasn’t run the most ... connected campaign.”

“He’s fucked it.”

“He’s not had the best material to _start_ with.” Julius murmurs and Malcolm gives him a sideways glance. It’s never occurred to him that Julius wouldn’t like Dan Miller. It’s belatedly occurring to him now.

“Not a fan?” He inquires curiously. “I don’t suppose Dan Miller spent much of his time up in the heady heights of the second chamber.”

“I knew him before I was made a Lord.” Julius says primly. “And I would not like to speak too ill of a man who may be about to become the Prime Minister of Great Britain and – “

“My left fucking bollock has more of a chance of running the country that that little fuckwit.” Malcolm interrupts, “And would do a better fucking job of it.”

Julius’s eyebrows raise. “I thought you rather liked him?”

“People always assume I like people and yet they’re always fucking wrong.” Malcolm spears a piece of aubergine, “I couldn’t fucking stand Dan Miller.”

“You supported him!”

“I thought he was safe.” Malcolm says tiredly, “I thought he was electable. I could’ve got him fucking elected.”

“He might still _be_ elected.” Julius points out.

Malcolm grimaces.

* * *

Despite his manner, there’s still a part of Malcolm that hopes. There always is, every election, a small secret desperate part of him that hopes the entire electorate will suffer a mass enlightenment overnight. That people will rise early, attend the polls on time and, when faced with the choice of a party that’s given the country the NHS, gay rights, social care, support for mothers, consistent social protection and compassion vs. a group of fat, miserable, out-of-touch, horse owning, _cunts_ they’ll put a tick for Dan Miller’s team.

The exit poll is announced. Julius breaths in sharply, Malcolm exhales softly.

“Surely not.” Julius says in shocked disbelief. A full swing to JB’s lot? From a coalition? In this climate?”

“Fuckit.” Malcolm eyes Julius’s glass of wine and viciously knocks back a diet coke.

“Exit polls have been wrong before.” Julius manages, the last refuge of the politically disappointed.

“Not in our favour.” For a moment, as the exit poll was announced, Malcolm knew that he _felt_. A rush of anger, hot spiking disbelief, the bitter tang of disappointment. This is, he realises with dull shock, the first election since entering politics where he’s been completely helpless. In all previous years he’s been deeply and personally involved, running himself ragged right up to the final end of voting. This year, other than a few encouraging columns in the papers, he’s had no more power than any other person in the UK. Just a single cross by a name.

“It’ll be interesting to see what happens in Scotland.” Julius says bravely and Malcolm scowls.

“Don’t even fucking mention Scotland.”

Julius gives a mischievous little grin, “You must be curious, after all it’s a match between your two protégées...”

“Julius I’m warning you –“

“Dan Miller versus the Scottish Party. That’s Ollie Reeder.”

“Fucking traitor.” Malcolm spits out.

“Versus James MacDonald.”

“Fucking treacherous fucking traitor.”

“Well I think James has done rather well –“ Julius begins but is quickly interrupted.

“He’s splitting our vote that’s what he’s doing. Scotland should be _ours_ through to the fucking core, and he’s swooped in like a fucking flash bastard on a motorcycle, all “Oi’ darlin’; vote fer us” and they’ve got no political power and they’re stealing _our_ fucking votes.” Malcolm can feel the passion and energy rising up inside him and for a moment he’s tempted to indulge. To break out into full rant and let it all go. He doesn’t feel quite up to it though and slumps back down onto the sofa. “Ach. Doubt it would’ve made enough of a difference.”

Julius shoots him a worried glance. “Malcolm?”

“They’re going to win. They’re going to fucking win. I gave Reeder everything I could, everything that useless little tit could’ve needed. Dan Miller was fucking _gift wrapped_ ... Jesus Christ Julius. I met this lad in prison. Called himself Degsie. Never voted in his life. He couldn’t have picked Dan Miller out of a line up. He couldn’t have picked him out of a line up of Dan Miller and five fucking _sheep_. _He’s_ the one this election is going to fuck over. Him, his fucking mother trying to pay bedroom tax, his fucking sister and her kids.” He’s getting worked up again but this time it’s enough to push him to critical mass and he can’t stop now, “It’s all a game. I mean I know, because I fucking played enough of it, but at least I’m fucking aware of what the game is for. But Ollie Reeder and Dan Miller? They don’t have a clue. I mean was it my fault, Julius?” Malcolm turns to the rather alarmed looking peer sitting on the sofa next to him. “Ollie Reeder, who couldn’t sell cock to fucking Newcastle, and I left him with the job of selling Dan Miller to the country?”

There’s a bit of silence in the aftermath of his words while the BBC reporter speculates in the background. “Of course it’s not your fault.” Julius says eventually. “And Malcolm ... we still don’t know the result.”

Malcolm doesn’t even dignify that with a response. He stares at the little vote counter that slides across the bottom of the screen, both sides set to zero, and reaches for the Iron Bru.


	3. Ollie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Julius and Malcolm are raging and reminiscing, Ollie is having a distinctly less enjoyable time of things.

There’s a sort of gasp that travels around the room as the exit poll is announced. A gasp of sound that’s followed by a short silence, a brief mourning of the moment, and then the phones start to ring.

Ollie doesn’t answer them. There are plenty of other people doing that. Through the roaring in his ears he can dimly hear Steve Flemming shouting “Exit polls have been wrong before” into a receiver, and Lydia typing frantically away into her mobile. He feels like he should be doing something, but he also feels like someone’s tipped a bucket of ice-cold water down the back of his neck and momentarily paralyzed him.

He’s never really had failures before. Oh he’s had political embarrassments, he’s well used to those, but an election is different. An election is like an examination. Oliver Reeder has passed exams successfully and reliably since his little fingers could first grab a pen. He’s been rewarded at school, succeeded at university, even in his career, he’s moved on an upward trajectory. Working at Millbank, special adviser to an MP, special adviser of the leader of the opposition and now, at the final hurdle, it looks like he’s failed rather spectacularly. Losing the trust of the entire British electorate is a bad time to start getting used to failure.

Lydia taps him on the shoulder and he turns, but catches the eye of Dan Miller first, who shoots him a look of pure disdain before quickly softening his features for the cameras. The place is packed with people, press, candidates, advisers, personnel and Ollie starts to push his way through them, wanting desperately to get to Dan Miller and explain. The cameras are still there and Dan Miller is giving a short little speech as Ollie approaches. As soon as he’s finished he rounds on Ollie and hisses, “Well?”

Ollie swallows nervously and whatever he was about to say suddenly leaves his brain entirely, leaving him gaping like a fish and eventually trembling with, “Exit polls have been wrong before...”

“That’s it?” Dan Miller practically snarls, but through teeth clenched together and smiling mouth for the cameras. “That’s all you can tell me?”

“We still have a chance.” The terrifying crashing waves in Ollie’s head are receding. “This is a set-back, yes, but people do lie in exit polls...”

“They lie about voting for our political other half. They don’t lie about voting for us. Why would they lie about voting for us? We’re the _good_ guys.” Dan flashes a smile and a small wave to a journalist he doesn’t recognise. “I take it that if this set-back does turn into rather more of a settled-back I have a damn good speech prepared, yes?”

Ollie nods. He hasn’t really had time to write one. If they lose, it doesn’t seem to matter what Dan says. “We’ll have to wait and see what the results say. All votes are in, there is absolutely nothing else anyone can do now to increase your chances of getting elected.”

Dan raises an eyebrow. “My chances?”

“O-our chances.”

Dan flashes another smile, and grips Ollie’s shoulder tight enough to make him wince. “My chances are very much our changes, Ollie Reeder. If I don’t win this election, you’ll never work in Westminster again.”

Ollie nods and feels a sudden ardent and desperate desire for Dan Miller to lose. He jumps as Steve Flemming appears behind him, looking grim. “Papers are going mad. They want a quote about the exit poll to use if we end up winning despite the prediction, and another they can use if it turns out to be true and we fall completely on our faces.” He shakes his head and pats Ollie’s other shoulder, the one currently not suffering from Dan Miller bruising. “Fasten your seat-belts, lads, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

“Night.” Ollie corrects quietly as soon as Dan and Steve move out of earshot. “It’s going to be a bumpy night.”

* * *

There’s coffee, and Ollie drinks it whenever he can. There’s no need for him to be here, really there’s no need for him to do anything at all. But somehow there has to be the _illusion_ of activity. Lydia and Flemming answer the phones. Steve hands one to Ollie at one point but he just listens for a while and then monotones “It’s too early to speculate” before hanging up. After that, they keep him away and everyone is happy to ignore him shivering in the corner drinking coffee.

The night slowly moves from being too early to speculate to being too late to speculate. The news is on from several channels, but Ollie only watches the BBC rolling coverage, the counter with numbers racking up on the wrong side, the swingometer swinging in the wrong direction. The map that keeps washing the country in blue and, up in Scotland, a surprisingly large amount of yellow.

Yellow is the colour of the newly-founded Scottish Party, where Ollie knows Jamie MacDonald went to work. There really is an impressive amount of yellow. It covers Scotland piece by piece, and Ollie almost feels proud. He can’t feel proud of his own work, not while the blue keeps flashing up below the border, but he can definitely feel proud of Jamie’s.

It’s clear even before it happens that Dan Miller isn’t going to win. The exit poll sketched a fuzzy little outline of all of their futures and each result draws over that outline with surer and firmer colours. In particular the colour blue. JB’s party is going to have an outright win for the first time since ...

Ollie drops his face into his hands. Since Malcolm. The first time since Malcolm. Malcolm has been the force of nature keeping the poisonous bastards away from full unfettered power and now he’s gone, that’s where they’re headed.

He looks up to see the counter ping its way merrily past the point of no return, and there's a sort of groan from the people surrounding him. Suddenly the phones are ringing twice as often and far more frantically. His personal mobile goes off with three different noises and Ollie reaches into his pocket and turns it off. He’s pretty sure he no longer has a job. And if he doesn’t have a job, he is no longer obliged to do any of this.

He can see Dan Miller and Steve Flemming striding towards him. Dan’s eyes are cold and Ollie wonders whether the smart little robot exterior is starting to crack. He know, _knows_ that somewhere inside Dan is a psychotic emotionless megalomaniac, and part of him almost wants everyone _else_ to see that to. To see just how shit Ollie’s life has been for the last year and a half. Flemming is flapping his arms around, trying to say something, but when Dan Miller reaches Ollie he falls silent.

“Well?” Dan asks.

Ollie glances at him, then flickers his eyes towards the BBC, “We, um, appear to have lost.”

“I’m aware of that.” Dan Miller’s eye is twitching. “Perhaps, as my Director of Communications, you’d like to tell me exactly _why_ we appear to have lost this general election?”

Ollie Reeder stares at him through the lights of his burning bridges and says quietly, “Well, maybe, Dan Miller, it’s because the voting public of Great Britain and Ireland think that you’d make a completely shit Prime Minister.”

And as Dan Miller’s face twists, as the press cameras click and film, as Dan Miller’s fist comes flying straight towards his face, it almost seems worth it.


	4. Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a good night for the Scottish Party!

He feels alive again, after the oppressive, stagnating years in Westminster being back in Holyrood is making Jamie feel fantastic. It’s true, he has to admit, that a large portion of that spectacular feeling comes from the sheer euphoria of doing so well in an election. It reminds him of the old days, that magical, wonderful, _intense_ moment when Malcolm had first snatched victory away from almost two decades of Tory Bastards. He’d been _beyond hungover_ the morning following that.

This time though, there’s no time for hangovers. He’s got a drink, of course, but he’s been nursing it all night and filling himself up with caffeine. By the time the sun rises he’s almost buzzing and now, with the new dawn of a wonderful Scottish parliament shining through the windows, is the _best_ time to be buzzing.

His phone vibrates yet again and he tugs it out of his pocket, grinning at the unknown number. He’s had a lot of unknown numbers tonight – old friends offering congratulations, excited voters hysterically telling him how wonderful the Scottish Party is, or journalists begging for interviews with the winning candidates. Shawna sticks her head around the door to give everyone inside an enthusiastic thumbs up and Jamie grins at her, nods, and then answers the phone.

“James MacDonald, Scottish Party, speaking?”

“Alright, well done, you didn’t make a complete cock up of it, happy?”

The voice. Fuck that voice. It sounds exactly the same as ever and Jamie has to sit down and briefly close his eyes. “Malcolm.” It’s not a question. “Didn’t expect you to call.”

“Ah well. I saw you on the telly looking pretty pleased with yourself.” Jamie glances over at the television, which has snapped to show Dan Miller giving a short and badly written speech as the loosing party leader. “You did well. Don’t make me fucking repeat it.”

“Seen who’s on the BBC now?” Jamie smirks as Dan finishes his speech and strides off into the crown. “Dan Miller. What a pity. What a great big fucking pity. Such a promising young man. Your old pal Flemming, I see, and look there’s Ollie _Reeder!_ What a surprise he’s floating around this gigantic turd, eh? He still doesn’t look like he’s properly finished puberty.”

“He still doesn’t act like – ohhh!” Malcolm’s cry is echoed by an answering one of Jamie's as he stands up, staring at the screen in shock and delight as Dan Miller’s fist sends Ollie flying to the floor.

“Fucking hell Malc’ – did y’see?”

“I saw it. That’ll sting.”

Jamie can hear another voice echoing disbelief in the background of the phone and grins, “Who else is there? You having a bit of a party?”

“Nah. No one here.” Malcolm sounds somewhat embarrassed, “Only Julius.”

“What?”

“Nicholson. Julius Nicholson.” There’s no doubt about it, Malcolm is sounding embarrassed now, and Jamie gives a crow of laughter.

“And the lion shall fucking shack up with the lamb, and Ollie Reeder will get thumped in the face ... Christ it’s all been happening tonight hasn’t it? You two moved in then? Living in London with His and His matching bathmats?”

“Fuck no.” Malcolm growls but Jamie ignores him, waving an exhausted but excited looking press officer over to the door as someone knocks on it. Catching up with Malcolm is proving to be fun and unintentionally hilarious, but he does have a job to focus on, and its several shades more important than this.

“Well give Lord Baldy of Baldshire my fondest regards. Tell him thanks for the Christmas cards. It’s all fucking kicking off here Malcolm.”

“Don’t get overexcited.” Malcolm warns dryly, “You don’t want to crash at the same time the press do. They’ll love you right now, so _now_ is when you rest, right? You’ve just been elected, the public doesn’t need to hear any more about how electable you are. Now is when you rest, recover, get your message out, get all your MPs on the fucking message and enjoy the action replay of Reeder getting a slap, alright?”

Jamie grins, “Jesus it’s like my mother’s haunting me from beyond her grave. You miss it, don’t you, admit it. Lack of sleep, potential for bodily harm and all. You’d have given anything to be where Ollie Reeder was last night instead of sitting on a fucking sofa in Kensington with Julius Fucking Nicholson.”

There’s a pause, and Jamie suddenly realises he doesn’t want to know the truth. He doesn’t want to hear that Malcolm is old, tired, fed up, and more than willing to hand over to the next generation, even if a major player in said next generation is currently slumped snoring gently on a folding chair in Dan Miller's headquarters with a bloody handkerchief held up to his nose.

Malcolm gives a chuckle down the phone-line. “Course I would’ve. It’s been boring as backwards buggery stuck here. You steal our votes in the next election and I’ll hunt you down and strangle you with that stupid yellow noose on your flag. Alright?”

Jamie puts down the phone, excited and giddy, and for the first time both relieved and pleased that Malcolm is a world-class expert at telling a convincing lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was initially meant to be a story about Malcolm and Julius, but unfortunately I stopped writing it half way through and then had no idea how to really end it after the exit poll. So I decided to check in on the other boys and torture Ollie Reeder along the way :p
> 
> I'm still dealing myself with the results and aftermath of the 2015 election, so this fic did get a bit political in places. But this story has been in my head since I started writing Prison Files so it's good to finally get it out. Both Prison Files and Pre-Election Special are very much intended to be preludes to this story, so go and check them out if you enjoyed this one!


End file.
